‘Whatever tales she might have learned.’
‘I forbid—’ Warrington’s head snapped sideways. ‘No. She is my family and she must stay with us.’
Rhys lips quirked up. ‘But, War, we’re like brothers. Your family is my family.’
Warrington grunted. ‘You didn’t believe that flop when I said it. Don’t try to push it back in my direction.’
Rhys smiled. ‘I suppose it is your decision to make, War. But remember. I am serious and I will not back down.’
‘I assure you, Rhys, Miss Cherroll is not the gentle sort that the duchess is used to having tea with.’
Rhys gave a slight twitch of his shoulder in acknowledgement. Warrington had no idea his mother was only having tea with memories of death. She’d lost her will to live. With her gone, he would have no one. No one of his true family left. And he was not ready to lose the last one. ‘Call Miss Cherroll. Let me decide.’
With a small cough of disagreement, Warrington shrugged. ‘Speak with her and you’ll see what I mean.’ He reached for the pull. A child’s laughing screech interrupted him. A blonde blur of a chit, hardly big enough to manage the stairs, hurtled into the room and crashed into Warrington’s legs, hugging for dear life, and whirling so he stood between her and the door.
Bellona, brandishing a broom, charged in behind the little one and halted instantly at the sight of Warrington.
Rhys took in a breath and instantly understood Wicks’s fascination with the woman. Her face, relaxed in laughter, caught his eyes. He couldn’t look away—no man would consider it.
‘Just sweeping the dust out of the nursery,’ she said to Warrington, lowering the broom while she gingerly moved around him. The child used him as a shield.
Warrington’s hand shot down on to the little girl’s head, hair shining golden in the sunlight, stilling her.
Bellona’s attention centred on the waif. ‘Willa, we do not run in the house. We swim like fishes.’
The child laughed, pulled away from the silent admonishment of her father’s hand on her head, puffed her cheeks out and left the room quickly, making motions of gliding through water.
Warrington cleared his throat before the chase began again. ‘We have a guest, Bellona.’
Rhys saw the moment Bellona became aware of his presence. The broom tensed and for half a second he wondered if she would drop it or turn it into a weapon. Warrington was closer, and Rhys was completely willing to let her pummel him.
She lowered the bristles to the floor, but managed a faint curtsy and said, ‘I did not know we had a visitor.’ Her face became as stiff as the broom handle.
Warrington turned to Rhys.
‘Bellona is... She gets on quite well with the children as you can tell.’ His eyes glanced over to her. ‘But she is not as entranced with tranquillity as her sister is.’
‘I do like the English ways,’ she said, shrugging. ‘I just think my ways are also good.’
‘But my children need to be well mannered at all times.’ Warrington frowned after he spoke.
‘I do adore the paidi. They are gold,’ she said, voice prim and proper. ‘But no little one is well mannered at all times. They have life. It is their treasure. They should spend it well.’
‘They should also know the way to be proper and comport themselves in a lofty manner when they meet such a person as we are privileged to have in our presence.’ He glanced at Rhys. ‘His Grace, Duke of Rolleston. Rescuer of lost puppies, everywhere.’ He turned to Bellona to complete the introduction. ‘Miss Cherroll, my wife’s kind and gentle-spirited youngest sister—’ his brows bumped up as he looked back at Rhys ‘—who has called me a few endearments in her native language that our tutor neglected to teach us, and when her sister translates I fear something is lost in the meaning.’
Her eyes blinked with innocence at Warrington for a moment before she acknowledged the introduction with a slight nod.
‘I believe the duke wanted to speak with you.’ Warrington walked to her, took the broom and looked at it as if might bite. ‘And I should see about Willa.’
The earl took two long strides to the door. ‘I won’t send a chaperon.’ He smiled at Rhys as he left. ‘You’re on your own.’
Pleased Warrington had left them alone, Rhys’s attention turned to Bellona. She’d moved a step back from him and stood close to an unlit lamp on a side table. Her eyes remained on the arrow in his hand.
Perhaps he’d been mistaken about her. She might be unsettled.
Bellona nodded towards the arrow. ‘I believe that is mine.’
Rhys grasped the shaft with both hands and snapped the arrow across his knee, breaking the wood in two pieces. Then he held it in her direction.
The straight line of her lips softened. Her shoulders relaxed and she moved just close enough so that he could place the arrow in her hand. Exotic spices lingered in the air around her and he tried to discern if it was the same perfume from a rare plant he’d once noted in a botanist’s collection.
‘Thank you.’ She took the splintered pieces and increased the distance between them. Examining the broken shaft, she said, ‘I feared you would not be so kind as to return it.’
‘You could have injured someone. My gamekeeper.’
She raised her eyes to Rhys. ‘The arrow did what arrows do. I didn’t want to hurt him, but he—’ Bellona dismissed the words. ‘His voice... You should speak with him about glossa—his words.’
‘Leave the poor man alone. He has been on my estate his whole life and feels as much kinship to the land as I do.’
‘A man cannot own land. It is a gift from the heavens to be shared.’
‘For the time being, it is my gift and I control all on it. You upset the gamekeeper.’
She shrugged. ‘He upsets rabbits.’
‘They are invited. You are not. However...’ His next words were about to change that, but he forgot he was speaking when her hand moved.
Flicking up the notched end of the arrow, she brushed the feathery fletching against her face. The arrow stroked her skin. One. Two. Three little brushes. Softness against softness.
His heart pounded blood everywhere around his body except his head.
He remembered where he was, but not what he’d been saying. He looked at her eyes, checking for artifice, wondering if she knew how he reacted to her.
‘I do not know if this is a good idea.’ He spoke barely above a whisper.
‘The traps are a bad idea. Wrong. Thinking you own the earth is not correct.’ She moved her hand to her side, the arrow tip pointed in his direction.
Traps? That problem was easily solved.
‘At the soirée, what did you say to Pottsworth in Greek that was so shocking?’ he asked.
She raised her brows.
‘Never mind.’ He turned away. Walking to the painting, he looked at it. An idyllic scene with a sea in the background. Waves lapped the sand and breezes brought the scent of moisture to him. ‘Are you one of the little girls in the painting?’ He raised his finger, almost touching the long-dried oils. She had to be the youngest one—the urchin had grown into the woman behind him.
‘Miss Cherroll.’ He turned back. ‘Are you the little one in the picture?’
‘It